Probability
by Donelle
Summary: The probability of Colby Granger dying in the immediate future is going up with every passing minute.


**Title:** Probablity

**Rating:** PG-13 for character whump and some strong words

**Summary:** The probablity of Colby Granger dying in the immediate future is going up with every passing minute.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the recognizable/original characters, places or things. I made no profit off of this story. I do own this plot and any new characters/places/things.

* * *

"You're an idiot." Don says, and Colby thinks his words might carry a little more weight if his hands weren't pushing painfully against Colby's abdomen.

"Am not." Funny how the thought of defending himself only occurs now, as he's bleeding all over a dirty basement floor.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Don asks, removing his hands for a moment.

Colby gasps at the loss of pressure and whispers "Doing what?"

He hears cloth ripping – bandages, he thinks, Don is making bandages – and then "Throwing yourself into dangerous situations."

"I'm just doing my job." Colby says, weakly, and there's the rattle of a belt being undone.

"Bullshit." Don snaps. Colby can feel him layer the ripped cloth over the wound and cinch it tight with the belt, forming a crude pressure bandage.

He doesn't know what makes him say it, but somehow "I just want you to trust me again." Comes out instead of a lie.

"You want me to trust you, so your putting your life in danger?" The other agent asks incredulously.

Colby snorts slightly with dry humor. "If I didn't, you'd question whether I was trying hard enough." He shifts a little, trying to get comfortable.

"I would n-"

"Don't." Colby cuts Don off. "Don't say you wouldn't. You know that if someone else got hurt while I was on the job you'd blame me, think it was my fault."

"So what, you're trying to put yourself out of your misery?"

"I'm not trying to get myself killed." Colby murmurs, voiced dropping low in exhaustion

"Right" Don says, not sounding convinced. He's silent for a long moment and then asks, "How're you feeling?"

"Hurts." Colby murmurs, regretting the concession as soon as it's out.

"Bullets usually do." Don tells him, bluntly. He's clenching and unclenching his hands and Colby watches him through half closed eyes.

"Anyone know where we are?" Colby asks, after a bit.

"No." Don grinds out, anger evident even in that short syllable.

"Sorry." He says, guilt tingeing his tone. It's his fault, he knows. He seems to have a way of bringing down those near him.

"Yeah, well, next time maybe give the rest of us a heads up before charging after dangerous suspects, okay?"

"Mmm." Colby agrees, but he doubts there will be a next time. He thinks he's run out of near misses and close escapes.

"Stay awake." Don snaps.

"I'm tired." Colby mutters, not bothering to lift his drooping eyelids.

"You were thrown down a flight of stairs." The other agent says, shaking him until his eyes open.

"I've also been awake for the last forty eight hours. I'm allowed to be tired."

"Be tired all you want. Just don't sleep." Don's voice is tinged with something…worry?

"Not going to make much of a difference." Colby points out. "Blood loss'll get to me before the concussion."

Don doesn't disagree, only says "Bastard knew right where to hit you."

"He's an ex-marine sniper. What did you expect?" Colby asks, accepting the abrupt change of subject without complaint.

"A distance shot, a bullet through your head, or heart."

Colby shrugged. "Liver is slow." He gasps slightly at a new wave of pain and adds, "Painful too."

"Why so close?" Don asks roughly, his tone belying the gentleness of his hands as he helps Colby shift into a better position.

"The thrill of it." Colby answers, after a moment. "He's a good sniper. A great sniper. There's no challenge in killing from a distance anymore, no risk. Saw it on his face, when he shot me. He wants his victims to see him. Wanted me to know who my killer was."

"Attempted killer." Don corrects.

"Right." Colby feels out of place, knowing he should say something, do something, to reassure the other agent.

Time slips away from him then and when Colby next blinks to full awareness Don is digging his knuckles into his sternum and insisting he wake up.

"'m fine." Colby slurs, struggling to sit. The pain won't let him and he curses breathlessly.

"Just stay awake." Don's voice has softened, anger giving way to fear.

"We have any water?" Colby asks weakly, turning his head a little to examine the basement further. The only light comes from a bare bulb but the tiny underground room is small enough the single fixture is enough to brighten it.

"No." Don says shortly. After a moment he adds, "Doesn't matter though, not with a stomach wound."

"Right.' Colby grunts. "Forgot."

"It's okay." Don murmurs kindly, and isn't that a shock? People have been anything but in the last few months, watching Colby's every move, waiting for him to make a mistake. It's a surprisingly nice feeling, having someone worry over him, and he lets his eyes slip shut again as he drifts in the feeling.

"Colby!"

He jerks. "Sorry." He mutters, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes. "I fall asleep again?"

"For a few minutes, yeah." Don says. Colby can feel the other man's eyes on him, but he doesn't meet the gaze.

"C'mon." Don insists after a long moment. "You need to talk, stay awake."

"Talk about what?" Colby asks, his tongue feeling thick and cottony.

"Anything. The case. How'd you know it wasn't Stackford?"

"Repeat offence rate on the cases Gray worked didn't feel right." It's not a complete answer, but it's the most Colby can manage right now.

"And?" Don prompts, when Colby stops talking.

"Gray's done this before. Wait's till old cases come up for parole, then makes a kill using their profile."

"Tell me how he framed Stackford." Don says, to Colby's annoyance.

"Why? You've got to know." He complains with a slight cough. Don reaches over and wipes at his mouth, folding the blood stained handkerchief out of Colby's sight.

"Yeah, I do. But you need to stay awake. Figured you'd rather talk about the case than something personal."

Damn it. Don's right. Colby drags a hand across his sweaty forehead and continues. "He gets their addresses from the parole files, and digs through their trash. A hair, a fingerprint. He doesn't need much."

"You knew he was going to go after Stackford." Don says, real curiosity working its way into his tone. "How?" Colby shrugs a little.

"Gray found out Stackford had an alibi, knew he was a liability. He tried to fake a suicide." He pauses, sighing heavily. "Was too late to save Stackford. Just pissed Gray off."

"Yeah, I got that part." Don mutters, but he doesn't sound annoyed. At least, not at Colby. "Charlie'll figure things out." Don adds.

"Always does." Colby replies, with as much bravado as he can muster.

Time passes. Rescue does not come. Don makes him as comfortable as possible, but there is little to be done. At one point, as Don is changing the laden bandages, Colby abruptly says "I have flashbacks." He figures if he's going to die, he mine as well get some things off his chest.

Don freezes for a second, but then continues his ministrations with forced calm. "About what?" He asks, although he has a good idea. Colby shrugs a little.

"All the mistakes I've made. The people I've killed. The people that have tried to kill me." He breaks off, gasping, as Don cinches the belt tight again.

"Sorry." The other agent apologizes and then, carefully, "I notice you never went to your psych evaluation."

Colby pants for a minute, getting his breath back, and then "Nothing to talk about."

"Flashbacks are something." Don replies, settling next to Colby's head and leaning back against the wall. His head is throbbing. Getting pistol whipped will do that to a man.

"Helluva case." He says to the room at large, when it becomes apparent that Colby isn't going to continue talking.

"'pose to be my day off." The other agent complains with a slight slur.

"Next time we're held against our will I'll be sure to schedule it at a more convenient time." Don replies with dark humor, gaining a slight laugh from Colby.

The day moves on. As the scent of blood in the air becomes stronger, it takes more and more effort to keep Colby awake. Don struggles against his own half forgotten concussion, watching the numbers on his watch tick by.

It takes four hours, thirty three minutes and twenty eight seconds from the time Colby is shot and thrown down a flight of stairs to the time the heavily locked basement door is kicked in and rescue arrives. Don is in shock, unable to do more than sit and stare, while Colby's grasp on consciousness is tenuous at best. He can hear only snatches of the conversation that swirls around him.

"- get EMS -"

"'s liver-"

"low, pulse thready -"

"Colby!" A finger taps sharply against one cheek and he blinks.

"Dav'd?" He slurs uncertainly.

"Yeah man, yeah." His partner reassures. Colby can feel other hands on him, pressing, cutting, probing, can hear Don's exhausted voice in the background, and he tries to focus on David.

"Got shot." Colby mutters weakly.

"I can see that." Is the level response. He feels someone – David? – hold his neck still as a stiff brace is velcroed around it. He reaches fitfully for the constraining device, but David quickly transfers his grip from Colby's neck to his arms.

"No' fair." Colby complains. He wants to say more, ask why everyone seem so upset (at him, or for him?), but they roll him to one side and the words get lost in a scream. Then he's on his back again, resting on a hard, uncomfortable surface. He looses track for bit and when he catches up again he's in an ambulance. Don is sitting to one side, holding an IV bag connected to his own arm.

"You 'kay?" Colby asks the other agent.

"Just got knocked around. I'm fine." He's assured, and then the doors slam and there's a jolt of movement.

"Agent Granger, can you -" Colby probably could, but he's tired and doesn't feel like following orders from the strange woman with cold hands. Charlie found them and Don is okay and David is talking to him and no one seems angry with him. He floats in and out, digging knuckles and pinching pains keeping him from the rest he desired.

He's aware of racing movement and the wail of sirens. He can hear Don's breathing and the too fast beep of his own heart monitor. There's a moment of sweet summer air and then a blast of air conditioning that makes Colby shiver violently.

Hospital, he thinks as he inhales the familiar antiseptic scent. He shivers again.

"Agent, agent Granger I need you to stay awake." The request is nearly lost in the myriad of other noises that surround Colby. There are faces above him, words swirling around, and he does his best to follow it all.

" – fine, just take care of – " That's Don's voice, laden with irritation and fear.

" – how is – " David, who must have sped the entire way to be here so near on the tail of the ambulance.

"Agent!" His eyes snap open (when had they closed?) and he looks up at the hovering face of a grey haired doctor.

"Stay with me now." The man says, his face cutting out of Colby's line of sight.

"'m trying." he murmurs, words muffled by the mask that has appeared over his mouth.

"You're doing fine." The doctor reassures, hands pressing against Colby's stomach with agonizing pressure. He glances at something Colby can't see and says "Lets hang another unit, and keep that saline running wide open."

"How many does that make?" Another doctor asks, running his finger down the soles of Colby's feet "Can you feel that?" He barks at Colby.

"Yeah." He's getting dizzy, following all the conversations. Or maybe that's the blood loss.

"Five. Damn shot must have shredded his liver."

"Sensation intact – " No shit sensation is intact, Colby thinks as he feels the intrusive push of a catheter. He wants to object, but the energy required to move or even to speak seems far too great.

"Blood in the foley!" Some says and the stress level in the room jumps up another notch.

"Hurry it up people!" The grey haired doctor yells. "I want – " Colby never gets to hear what the doctor wants. The pain flares, making his vision black out and his hearing fade. Death as the illicit cargo aboard a fleeing freighter had been an easy drug induced slide – this is anything but. He stiffens, gasping on air that is suddenly too thin.

" – stats falling – "

" – need to – "

" – crashing!"

The heart monitor screams and Colby, for all he wants to fight, has nothing left to give.

* * *

A week and three surgeries later Colby wakes up, with half a liver and an eight inch scar. He blinks, slowly, blurry vision slowly resolving itself. He's in a private room, cluttered by the handful of chairs and a small rolling table that have transformed the space into a makeshift office. The team – his team – is doing paperwork by his bedside.

He stays conscious long enough to blink at them and have some water, then drifts back to sleep, lulled by the reassuring cadence of their quiet discussion. Things are not the way they were before, probably never will be, but Colby thinks that maybe he can stop trying to hard now. He has their compassion, maybe even some of their trust, and that is enough for now.

* * *

A/N: Because Colby Granger is just /so/ much fun to beat up.  
In other news, I hate the name of this story but after a week nothing better has occured to me, so the name will have to do.


End file.
